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The tome was in nearly new condition. The pages were flat and precisely cut, the marbled edges sporting the reds and blues of Ishgard. Fresh, supple leather was stretched taut against the sturdy cover, still pale in its color from lack of the oil of palmed caresses. The gilt detailing was fresh and unflaking, fully intact. On the title page, the author had signed a long, hand-penned note beneath the elaborately designed script that spelled the word Heavensward.
Once upon a time, G’raha would have been breathless at the novelty of how new the book was. What an edition, for the most discerning of collectors! But considering most of the pages held tales of her incredible achievement and heroism, he was not surprised that a treasured copy would be found placed among the shelves in the home of his lover. It had likely been a gift from Edmont de Fortemps. G’raha could think of nothing more flattering, more kind, than a tale of legend to be passed down for generations, one’s own achievements immaculately catalogued.
That she had never read it was no surprise. After all, he knew for a fact that the volume held many moments that would no doubt be painful for her to relive. There were some passages he could recite by rote, if asked. His own tattered copy had been devoured cover to cover countless times. In fact, he knew there was a particular illustration within that… well. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.
He carried the book into the innermost sanctum of his Warrior’s house, where there was a small breakfast nook and kitchen beside a large, naturalistic bath swimming with the illusions of koi. The table, he was certain, had been requisitioned somewhere in the Crystarium, or at least fashioned to look like it.
As he took a seat, G’raha checked the chronometer on the wall. He had arrived a bit earlier than he expected her to be home, although she wasn’t expecting him. He was hoping to surprise her with a long weekend away from Old Sharlayan. At best, he had about half a bell with time to while away.
His hands, quick with the practice of muscle memory, found the page right away about three-quarters into the book. According to the date on the portrait, it had been made a mere three hundred days after he had locked himself away in the Crystal Tower, an even number that he found somewhat satisfying and charming. The print of the charcoal sketch still illuminated its depth, although the artist was unidentified in this edition.
The intense stare of her eyes was the first, most striking thing about the drawing, as if she could stare into one’s soul and find their deepest secrets. Her soft hair framed her face in a way that accentuated the toned outline of her jaw, the contrasting softness of her features. Her lips were supple but drawn into a terse, focused pout. Her top was of neo-Ishgardian design, leather pieces overlaid like dragonscale, the neckline diving to her sternum and showing a hint of cleavage beneath her breasts, the swell of her chest so real one could almost see her taking even, measured breaths. Dense furs were wrapped around her shoulders to bring a fullness and warmth to this depiction of a champion. Despite the greyscale nature of the drawing, it had a realism that might trick a tired, lovesick sorcerer into thinking it was about to leap off the page.
G’raha’s breath quickened simply looking at it. How many nights had he touched himself to this image? The bittersweet memories of a younger self flitted through his mind. He would gasp and bite his lip as he stroked himself to a peak. Countless times, he had whispered her name into the echoing, empty chamber of the Crystal Tower. His seed had roped across the chamber in long strands, elaborating upon the pale veining of the sapphire floors.
Back then, he had only his imagination and wildest hopes to spur him along to ecstasy. Now, he sat in her home, lover and partner in every sense of the word. He knew the taste of her, the smell of her arousal, the feel of her shuddering around him as her face formed the most perfect expression of pleasure and relief. He had felt her hands on his hips, her nails on his back, her voice in his ear.
It was no wonder that his pants felt gradually unbearably smothering, that his cock throbbed and begged for any kind of friction. With half-lidded eyes, he delicately traced the outline of her shape. He palmed himself through his clothing with his other hand. With a bit of fumbling, he freed his length from the waistband of his pants. Ghosting his fingertips along the vein on the underside of his cock, he was reminded of her warm breath against that very spot, the tickle of her hair against the sensitive inside of his thighs.
Touching her dark lips in the drawing, he remembered them wrapped around his girth, kissing occasionally at the tip. Her voice resounded through his mind, the vibrations of soft hums as she enjoyed the taste of him, of the salty stream of pre-cum he trailed on her tongue.
His mind swam with remembrance, frantically flicking through the many occasions and nights they had shared, patient and driven by desire. The heady musk of his own sex as she kissed him floated to the top of his memory. She often provided his hungry mouth with a taste of what would come, nipped playfully at his neck, his responsive ears. Unable to count how many times he had lapped his own spend out from between her legs, he settled to remember the one time he had prepared her from behind, the sweet and earthy scent of her most intimate crevices swarming his senses.
Increasing his strokes in speed and ferocity, his thoughts drifted to the feeling of her cunt around him, her eager ass serving as a delightful grip for his ministrations. The first time he had seen her in the nude, and reveled in the sight of her, he hadn’t known if he wished to take his time to worship every ilm or to crush himself against her, to lose himself so fully within her that he knew naught else in all of existence. He was utterly devoted to the way she carded her fingers through his hair, pulled his face against her soft cheeks, moaned his name so sweetly that it brought succor to his soul.
Grunting with release, he shuddered and threw his head back. Not a coherent thought formed in his mind except her, her, her, semen flooding into his half-gloved hand. He slouched over the image, giving a flushed grin at the depiction of his love. Satisfied for only the moment, he grew excited with the knowledge that this was only a private primer for the night to come.
When she came home, G’raha called out for her. She discovered him washing his hands in the kitchen sink, gloves removed and drying on a towel folded onto the counter. “G’raha,” she breathed as if his name were a prayer, as if she had been waiting all day to speak those two syllables, which had never sounded lovelier on any other tongue. She melted into his back. Strong hands gripped his chest, then wandered downward. Brushing her palm over his crotch, she chuckled breathily at finding him half-hard. He twitched in response to her touch, humming in anticipation as he leaned back against her.
“That happy to see me?” she asked, teasing and joyful.
“You have no idea,” he said.